


Weight of Living

by ooinugirloo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pack Bonding, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooinugirloo/pseuds/ooinugirloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Stiles has panic attacks and has to see a therapist, but tries to hide both of those things from the pack. Of course, everyone finds out, in one way or another, and quietly helps him in their own way. 5+1 pack bonding with some Sterek thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight of Living

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for enders-infinity on tumblr, who requested Stiles having to see a psychologist and the pack finding out and trying to help however they can. 5 + 1 style, ‘cause I always wanted to try that out. Written in the land of No One Died, so place it whenever you want in the timeline, though most of the relevant events referenced happen in Season 1, I think? H/C, some sads, but ultimately pure fluff, some Sterek. I hope you like it, friend! ☺
> 
> Original prompt in its entirety: I shadow at a child neurology center that works with a pediatric psychologist, and there was this teen who got checked because he had ADHD, panic attacks, and a coordination disorder (all kids up to 18 have to have check-ups). Any who, he reminded me of Stiles so much, that I’ve been craving a fic where the pack finds out just how serious Stiles condition is, maybe they witness a panic attack and try to help him through it, or Stile’s dad can’t take him to the check-up so someone else has too? And not even Scott knows because Stiles has always been embarrassed about this particular situation. If you can fit in some Sterek love in there as well, I’ll be happy!

_1\. Stiles_

You’re better—you are! If not completely rid of them, you at least had them under control. You didn’t get short of breath at the sight of Mrs. McCall anymore, at the way she’d unthinkingly brush a lock of hair out of Scott’s face, smiling softly. You kept it together when your dad would go sad and misty-eyed in the middle of a conversation, breaking into his thoughts quickly before his eyes started straying to the liquor cabinet. You’re _fine_ , thank you, and if the government is going to mandate you going to the stupid psychologist—who doesn’t even help anything, by the way—you’re going to drive yourself and cut down the embarrassment factor as much as possible. And even if you are a little traumatized lately, there’s nothing a normal psychologist could do for you. You’ve just been suddenly and violently shoved into the world of the supernatural—werewolves, and kanimas, and emissaries, oh my!—you’re entitled to a little bit of panic. As long as you can manage to keep this a secret from everyone else and spare yourself the humiliation, everything’ll be okay. Because you’re _fine_ , really. Totally fine.

_2\. Scott_

I never noticed how much Stiles’s room smells like feet. I mean, I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs, and I can smell it from here. Werewolf senses, man, what the _fuck_. It’s just trippy to experience things with this amount of detail—like a bad trip that never ends. At least Allison doesn’t smell like feet. Allison smells like roses and laundry detergent and something a little sharp and powdery. It’s a great smell—everything about Allison is great. I still can’t believe she agreed to go out with me. I shake my head, snap out of it. Allison’s dad suddenly wanted her home for some family thing, so I had some free time and realized that I haven’t seen Stiles in like a week and came over. His dad lets me in and says that Stiles is upstairs, doing homework. He looks tired—which is normal for the Sheriff—and a little stressed out, I wonder if something’s bugging him? I didn’t call ahead, Stiles almost never has plans, and I figured this’d be some quality surprise bro-time, the kind we haven’t had since I met Allison.

I start up the stairs, automatically tuning into Stiles’s heartbeat, and realize that something’s wrong—his heart is beating really fast and sorta uneven, speeding up and skipping beats. I start hurrying, pause outside his door when I can hear him talking to himself. He sounds breathy, like his throat is constricted and he can’t get enough air. My lungs tighten with remembered pain, fighting the urge to burst in and give him my inhaler, listening instead. _“Stop it, Stiles, breathe, calm down—this is stupid, god you’re such a fucking wimp, nothing even happened to you, you don’t have any right to be panicking. Scott’s the one that got his whole fucking life screwed up because you had to be a nosy idiot and go digging around a body in the woods, for fuck’s sake—”_ He cuts off, wheezing and gulping. I stand there with my hand hovering over the doorknob, staring at the wood, dumbstruck. _“So what if he got superpowers and a girlfriend out of it and you haven’t heard from him in a week—you deserve him leaving you behind, you deserve all of this for being so weak and stupid, god fucking dammit!”_ I hear a muted thump, like he pounded his carpeted floor with his fist. He breathes shakily for a minute, and I’m about to open the door or walk away or _something_ when my nose twitches, smelling salt from the other side of the door. _“I might die tonight, and it’s all my own fault. I got Scott bitten, I put him in danger, I put my dad in danger, we could all die and it’s all my—”_ He’s whispering to himself, can’t draw enough breath to speak any louder, and chokes at the end, going silent.

I don’t know what to _do_ , how to make it better, I’ve never seen Stiles like this before—he’s been cheerful to the point of being annoying for the entire time I’ve known him. Suddenly I remember when his mom died—the day after, Stiles was completely silent in school all day until Jackson said something mean, like always, but instead of just rolling his eyes like he normally did, Stiles just sort of crumpled and started gasping like a fish out of water. I made him take puffs of my inhaler—something my mom trained into me from birth, practically—and then his dad came and took him home. I didn’t see him for two weeks, and then he was back in school, his usual self again. We were just kids at the time, so I assumed he just had an asthma attack and didn’t really think about it, but listening to his uneven, labored breaths through the thin wood of his door, I can’t help but wonder if this wasn’t what kept him out of school back then.

I can’t just leave him there, but I also can’t just walk in on this—I go into the Sheriff’s bedroom instead, slip out quietly though the window, thankful to these new werewolf powers for once. I jog around to the other side of the house and pull out my phone, dialing Stiles’s number from memory. It rings for so long that I almost think he’s just going to let it go to voicemail before he picks up, voice sounding a little hoarse and stilted, but mostly masked by the call. I greet him normally. “Hey, dude! What took you so long to pick up, were you jerking off or something?” He barks out a laugh, sounding surprised by it. _“No, asshole, my phone was just on silent and I didn’t see it. Why’re you calling me, isn’t Allison around?”_ I feel guilty instantly, knowing that underneath the joke there’s some ugly truth there. “Nah, bro, it’s just you, me, and your Xbox today. You game?” It takes a minute for him to answer. _“Yeah, that sounds great, actually.”_ He sounds better than when he first answered already, breathing deeper and easier. _“Just gimme like 10 minutes to dig my controllers out of my closet and then c’mon over, alright?”_ I agree and hang up, cocking my head to better catch the sounds of him moving around in his room. After the 10 minutes are up, I climb up the drainpipe next to his dad’s bedroom window and swing myself in, heading to his room and walking right in like I normally do. His eyes are a little red and a little puffy, but I don’t say anything, just throw my arm around his shoulder and promise myself that I won’t let Stiles get like that again, not while I’m around to help him.  

_3\. Lydia ( & Allison) _

I narrow my eyes at him, annoyance poorly masked. It’s only been five minutes since the more…canine-inclined segment of this motley crew of misfits left to go play fetch, or mark their territory, or something (something that I will be finding out about very soon, and disabusing whoever’s idea it was to have the humans sit at home like trophy wives of the notion that was ever going to happen. Just not today. Today, I have calculus homework.) and Stiles has gotten up to “get a drink” three times, dropped his pencil seven times, and run his hands through his hair fifteen times. I shoot a glance at Allison, seated next to me, and receive a shrug in response. Stiles’s leg has started bouncing, which, added to his tapping fingers, makes it look like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. I look at him closer; notice his pallor and shallow breaths. I list his symptoms to myself: shortness of breath, trembling, sweating, anxiety. Scooting my chair back, I reach across the table, lightly touching his forearm. He jerks like he’s been electrocuted, wrenching his arm away and biting out _“What do you want?”_ Two new symptoms: low body temperature, irritability.

I mask my concern with a raised eyebrow, letting him calm down on his own. He breathes deeply for a moment. _“I’m sorry, Lydia, did you need something?”_ I purse my lips, working out the best plan of attack. “I need you to eat that apple,” I say, pointing at the bowl of fruit in the middle of the Argents’ kitchen table, “and concentrate on this calculus with me so that we can be done before my manicure this evening.” He looks at me for a minute before complying, and I wonder exactly when it was that he went from an annoying—if earnest—pseudo-suitor to a real friend, someone I care about. Somewhere shortly after he gave up on his “10 year plan” and moved onto more…receptive partners, I muse, lips quirking up. We settle into the familiar rhythms of advanced calculus after that, solving and proofing and checking, successfully distracting him from his twitching and worrying.

It wasn’t until we finished the entire page of problems that we were snapped out of it, startling slightly at the sound of Allison setting mugs of hot chocolate on the table in front of us. _“Brain food!”_ she quips, winking. Stiles smiles appreciatively, taking small sips and grimacing when he still burns his tongue. I slant a glance over at how Allison has seated herself right next to Stiles, poised to comfort, and busy myself with my own drink, not wanting to interrupt. Sure enough, a few beats later, Allison breaks the comfortable silence softly, with some hesitance. _“Stiles, I don’t mean to be nosy, but I think we all noticed that you were a little…fidgety earlier. Are you okay?”_ He blanches, paling a little, eyes darting between Allison and me. He bites his lip, finally says _“I may have…uh, not taken my Adderall for a few days?”_ wincing when both of our heads snap up disbelievingly, he barrels on. _“It’s just that I was up late researching and forgot to eat dinner, and then I woke up late for school and couldn’t eat breakfast, and the meds make me super nauseous when I take them on an empty stomach, so I just…skipped them? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was making me so annoying.”_ He isn’t lying, as such, but I know that one or two days of skipped meds would not make for a reaction this strong if taken at a normal dosage. A quick glance at Allison shows that she also knows withdrawal when she sees it. _“Nah, you’re no more annoying than you usually are.”_ She jokes; making the tense set of his shoulders relax infinitesimally.

She stands and pushes back from the table, taking Stiles’s hand as she goes, dragging him out the back door. I follow, grabbing a blanket and a book and shutting the door behind me. Allison has Stiles over in the corner of the yard where there are practice targets set up, showing him how to hold a bow. I spread the blanket out at the base of a tree—in the opposite direction of the targets, thank you, I don’t have a genius level IQ for nothing—and crack open the book, absently listening to Allison explaining the tensile strength of the string to a weakly protesting Stiles. Despite himself, I can see that he’s interested—just as I predicted. Stiles can never turn down knowledge when it’s offered, can never resist the opportunity to _know_ something. It’s one of the traits that most endeared him to me at first—I saw that hunger to _learn_ that’s always burned deep in my gut reflected back at me in his eyes. True to form, he takes the bow, careful but determined. _“Remember, Stiles, you need to breathe deeply and slow your heartbeat. Steady your hands and keep your eyes on the target. Then exhale, and release.”_ I hear Allison coaching him from a few feet back, well out of the line of fire. He draws back an arrow, determination and focus written all over his face, looking centered and present in a way that he hasn’t for the whole afternoon--longer than that, now that I think about it. I watch his body still, manic energy tamed, and let the arrow fly. ‘Bull’s-eye’, I think to myself.

 

_4\. Isaac ( & Erica & Boyd)_

I was somewhat distracted, having just finished my weekly therapy session, which is why it took me a minute to place the heartbeat that kicked into overdrive as soon as I stepped into the corridor. It was Stiles, I realized, looking up at his pale, grimacing face, clearly having just come out of the office behind him, looking like he’d rather be dead than where he is. I didn’t know that Stiles went to therapy, but I decide not to make a big deal out of it, given how he looks like a fox caught in a trap right now, ready to gnaw his own leg off to escape. “Hey, Stilinski,” I drawl, moving towards him, “welcome to the Fucked Up Kids club, Hale Pack chapter.” His eyes bug out unattractively, like that was the last thing he expected me to say. I suppose it might’ve been—I haven’t exactly been friendly to him before, but I’m not a total dick, and he’s pack. The joke works, though, his color is back to normal and he grins as we walk down the hallway. _“Speak for yourself, Lahey,”_ he pauses, takes a breath—I wonder which part of what I said he’s about to refute. _“I’m in the McCall Pack. Totally different issues.”_ He glances at you from the corner of his eye, smirking a little. “Oh yeah, hunters with personality disorders and daddy issues, I’d take those any day over Derek’s fear of smiling.” I reach out and shove him gently, hyperaware of my werewolf-enhanced strength.

As we get to the door he starts looking peaky again, heartbeat going unsteady and scent souring. He goes to turn left out of the door, but I herd him right, into the Starbucks next door. “I’ve got a half hour before my ride gets here. Entertain me, human.” I sniff haughtily, for effect. He rolls his eyes, but relaxes, muttering _“I always knew you were a hipster. Starbucks, for god’s sake. You’re a walking cliché.”_ I ignore him, order a caramel macchiato and claim the best table—the one in the corner next to the windows with the perfectly squashy armchairs. He joins me a couple of minutes later, settling into the chair across from me. _“It’s nice to know that you have at least_ some _good taste, dude. I always sit here if I can fight my way through the Kurt Vonnegut wannabes that always set up camp over here.”_ I snort, going to retrieve my drink when I hear my name called a minute later. Stiles is next in the queue, and then we both sit, sipping our drinks in an increasingly awkward silence. “So,” I decide to address the elephant directly, “is your psychologist as much of an overeducated idiot as mine is?” His eyes light up, like no one has ever given him the opportunity to talk shit about an experience that, clearly, he hates. _“Man, you don’t even know—”_ And then he’s off, behaving more like the chatterbox goofball Stiles Stilinski that I’m used to seeing at school. I have to wonder, seeing him today, how much of that cheer is a front he puts on to disguise whatever it is that makes him have to see a therapist.

I lose track of time—talking animatedly with Stiles is unexpectedly fun, I can see why he and Scott are best friends now—and startle at the feeling of a hand on my shoulder. My back is to whoever just came over, but Stiles is facing them, and his mouth snaps shut, face going ashen. I look over my shoulder; see Boyd and Erica, the latter of whom is looking rather predatory.  I only have a second to regret not warning Stiles they were coming before Erica is launching into her usual half-teasing assault. _“What are you doing here, Boy Wonder? Did saving the city finally get too stressful for you? Need to unload some of your baggage on a trained professional, maybe?”_ She’s having too much fun enjoying her own cleverness to notice how Stiles is shrinking into himself with every word out of her mouth, getting paler and breathing shallowly, looking sickly. “Erica! Lay off, would you?” I snap at her, unable to watch her casually tear him down any more. She turns to me, eyebrows winging up, surprise written all over her face. I just glare at her, flicking my head over to where Stiles is still looking like he’s two seconds away from passing out, eyes closed, face turned away. She immediately looks remorseful, opens her mouth to say something, when— _“Stilinski.”_ Boyd’s impassive voice breaks the tension, Stiles’s head snaps up in surprised reflex. _“Did you do Friday’s Econ homework?”_ Stiles blinks, clearly thrown. _“Uh, no, not yet. Why?”_ Boyd shrugs his backpack off his shoulders, sits down in the chair next to Stiles and pulls his Economics book out, setting it on the table in front of them. _“I didn’t really get what Coach was talking about in class.”_ Boyd replies, opening the book. _“He kept breaking out into song and I had to stop listening in the interest of self-preservation.”_ Stiles laughs, relaxing in increments. _“Yeah, his falsetto could definitely use some work. What page was it, again?”_ I am incredibly thankful for Boyd’s unflappable nonchalance at that moment, and turn to look at Erica, ready to stop any more of her smart comments before they start, but judging from the guilty look on her face, I don’t have anything to worry about there.

She eventually joins their conversation—wincing herself as Stiles flinches at the sound of her voice, but carrying on normally, not referencing his therapy at all—and everything goes back to normal, the 4 of us hanging out like a group of normal kids. We do all of the homework for the classes we share, and then just talk, gossiping about things at school, keeping the subject light. The sun is going down when Stiles’s phone rings, surprising him. I can hear the Sheriff’s voice on the other end of the line, sounding worried that his son isn’t home yet, saying that because Stiles usually runs out of his therapy sessions like his tail’s on fire, he was expecting him home hours ago. Stiles apologizes for not calling, says he ran into some friends—his eyes flick around our faces at the word—and has been hanging out with them, but that he’s on his way home now.

He hangs up and stands, gathering his things. He goes to casually wave goodbye when Erica catches his wrist, getting his attention. I tense, not knowing what she’s going to say. She doesn’t say anything for a minute and Stiles starts to look increasingly nervous when Boyd steps in, saying that since he’s already driving Isaac to therapy every week, he may as well bring Stiles along too. I shoot him a grateful look, chiming in that that’d be a great idea, because “Didn’t you know, Stiles? Misery shared is misery halved!” Stiles snorts at the overused therapist phrase and nods, thanking Boyd. He looks down at his wrist, which Erica is still holding, and tugs a little, gently trying to get free. _“I…my mom doesn’t believe in therapy.”_ Erica forces out, grimacing. _“So Isaac asks his therapist questions for me sometimes, and tells me what coping mechanisms his therapist suggests for him. It really helps me.”_ She looks up at Stiles, an apology written all over her face, even if she can’t say the words. _“So if you’d tell me what your therapist says, too, it’d be even better.”_ Stiles moves her hand from his wrist to his palm, so they’re holding hands. _“I can do that.”_ He says, smiling softly. They shake on it, Erica blushing a little and looking pleased. There’s a warm feeling in my chest, and I think, maybe, for the first time, that I may get something out of this whole therapy thing after all.

_5\. Derek_

If anyone had told me two years ago that I would be in a safe, sane and consensual relationship with Stiles Stilinski, I would have punched them in the face. Well, I think, watching Stiles rummaging around in my fridge grumbling to himself, that isn’t the only thing in recent memory that I would’ve been wrong about. He straightens, calls out _“You have nothing edible in here, Der, I think it’s pizza or nothing tonight.”_ I smile, trying to tamp down the warm feeling in my chest chanting _family_ and _pack_ and other, scarier things. “Kale is edible!” I yell back, just to tease him, already taking a twenty out of my wallet for pizza. He swivels around towards you, grinning. _“Not on its own, you sadist.”_ He says, rolling his eyes. Drawing nearer, he leans into me until my eyes cross—which makes him giggle, one of my favorite sounds—and kisses me on the nose, a faint blush staining his cheeks. I wrap my arms around him, ducking my head and nuzzling into his neck, perfectly content. He brings his hands up to tangle in my hair, presses soft, sweet kisses to my cheek.

It’s only been a couple months (three months and eighteen days, to be exact) since the two of us stopped dancing around the awkward, charged tension hanging between us ever since the pool incident. It was Stiles (it’s always Stiles that does the hard things, the brave things, even if he doesn’t believe me when I tell him that) that came to me, smelling of embarrassment but looking determined, and asked if I’d like to go on a date with him. Feeling his warm breath against my face, I think that saying ‘yes’ that day might’ve been the best thing I ever did. After a few moments, he draws back, the corners of his eyes crinkled in an unbearably fond smile. _“Alright, you big softy, let me go so I can get some food before we both starve.”_ I let go reluctantly, watching him as he grabs his wallet and keys, lips quirking up as he half-stumbles out the door. After I hear him drive away— _no_ , it’s not creepy that I listen, Stiles, I’m a _werewolf_ , and the Jeep has a very distinctive engine, okay?—I wander back over to the fridge, start slowly sorting though all of the food, taking out what’s expired (most of it) and re-organizing what’s left (the condiments). I then take out the trash and, walking back into the loft, figure I may as well clean up the mess that my bedroom has become too, while I’m at it.

I’m elbow deep in wrestling a pile of dirty clothes into my hamper when I hear the _click-tick-hiss_ of the Jeep’s engine pull up and can’t stop the little smile that tugs at my lips at the thought of Stiles’s return. I continue with the laundry as he ascends the stairs and unlocks the door, pretending not to notice him. He’s forever telling me to _“Lighten up, Der, life doesn’t need to be so doom and gloom, y’know!”_ so I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine. Joke’s on him this time, I think, smirking. _“Honey, I’m home!”_ he calls, sticking his head around my doorframe with a grin. I turn around, faked confusion on my face, and ask “Who are you?” I’m expecting him to laugh, to pout, to shoot back a cheesy one-liner, anything but what he actually does. Stiles goes abruptly, alarmingly pale and looks like I’ve just punched him in the stomach. His scent goes sharp and sour with terror and dread and heartbreak. His heart kicks into overdrive, skipping around and speeding up like he’s running for his life, and his breath starts to come in shallow pants. I shoot to my feet, desperately confused and guilty, knowing that this is my fault somehow, but not knowing why or what to do to help.

I’m at his side, hands hovering, wanting to touch but not wanting to make it worse, murmuring his name and apologies over and over. His knees buckle and he slides along the wall to the floor, still struggling to breathe. I follow him down to the ground, put a hand on his shoulder, unable to restrain myself from touching him any more, and he curls into me with a high, wounded, keening sound. Holding him tightly seems to make his breath come a little easier, and as soon as he gets enough air he starts talking haltingly, voice wrecked. _“My mom…she had—frontotemporal dementia. She…at the end, s-she…started forgetting everything. Everyone. Right before she died she—couldn’t remember my dad. Couldn’t remember me.”_ He’s trembling, hands clenched, white-knuckled, in my shirt. I feel like someone just squeezed my heart in their fist. “Stiles, I’m so sorry, baby, I didn’t know. I’m so, so sorry, I’ll never do that again, I promise. I’m here, I won’t forget you, not ever.”

I pick him up, move to the living room and sit down on the couch, with him in my lap, clinging to me like an octopus. I run my hands down his back, feeling awful even as his shaking subsides and his heart slows back down. I keep up a stream of apologies and affirmations, at a loss for what else to do. Eventually, he pulls back and looks away, obviously ashamed of having broken down. “Hey,” I say, catching his eyes, “You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. I won’t try to joke like that again. I guess I should leave being witty to you, huh?” He smiles a little, but his eyes are still sad, uncertain. I put my hands on his cheeks; bring his forehead down to touch mine. I can’t think of anything else to tell him but the truth. “And, I’m a werewolf—I can’t get dementia. There’s nothing in this world that could make me forget you, Stiles.” All the tension in his body seems to drain out of him then, at last, and he slumps against me, face pressed into my neck. We both fall asleep like that, wound together on the couch, my last thoughts before sleep took me were a reminder not to take a single second of my time with this strong, beautiful boy for granted.

_+1. The Sheriff_

I’ve never been under any delusions about how poorly Stiles deals with stress in his life. My son picked up all of his coping mechanisms from his old man, namely ignoring and suppressing until whatever it was overtook you and brought you to your knees. After his mom, Stiles just collapsed—had to build himself back up from the ground up. I wasn’t there for him enough back then, too crippled by her loss myself, so he stood back up all on his own, and dragged me up with him. Stiles has always been stronger about the tough things than I have, and his mother’s death taught him that he has to be careful about who he loves, because he could lose them at any time. He’s all or nothing, though, my boy, and so he doesn’t get involved lightly. It means that Stiles doesn’t have a lot of friends, but I figured that was safer than risking a panic attack every time he walked out the door. And it worked, for a while. The attacks seemed to stop, Stiles picked himself up and dusted himself off—the visits to the child psychologist mandated by his ADHD and reinforced by his panic attacks the only remnant of his loss of composure.

He resents it now, I know. He sees it as a sign of weakness on his part. I wish to god that I had seen that when it started and stopped it before it was this rooted into him—how he blames himself and puts himself down. I thought maybe the therapy would help with that, but he’s too closed off, won’t open up to the psychologist. Little shit is too smart for his own good. I told him he could go by himself, drive himself there, as long as he went every week, but that if he skipped he’d be getting a police escort there and back. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t skipped a single session. Around the beginning of the year, though, he started to look pale and thin in the same way he did after Claudia. I had this bad feeling that he was in danger somehow—though how he would be in danger, I still can’t figure out. I’ve kept an eye on his Adderall, and while he’s taking a little more than is good for him, it’s nothing that would explain this feeling. Then one day, practically out of thin air, Stiles suddenly had friends—plural.

And it was the strangest group—Lydia Martin (THE Lydia, “strawberry blonde goddess”, “future Mrs. Stilinski” Martin), Allison Argent (Scott’s girlfriend), Erica Reyes (a quiet, epileptic girl who I always privately thought had a bit of a crush on Stiles), Isaac Lahey (who didn’t deserve any of what he got from his mean, abusive, drunk old man), Vernon Boyd (another quiet, loner-type, one of many siblings, not one to speak when silence would do, unlike Stiles) and Derek Hale (how the hell my teenaged son became acquainted with mid-twenty-year-old, ex-murder suspect Derek Hale, I would actually really like to know). Except, somehow, when all those kids came together, they didn’t behave at all like they did in public. Erica was loud and brash and sweetly caustic, Isaac was sarcastic and witty and rolled his eyes a lot. Boyd was still quiet, but it was with a smile on his face, like he belonged with these people. Lydia, with her “2 perfect coats of raspberry lip gloss” and “stupid, macho, jock, jerk Siamese-twin of a boyfriend”, was notably devoid of both, looking at Stiles with genuine fondness and discussing AP Calc homework with him. Allison and Scott were clearly off in their own little world half of the time, but they were nonetheless a seamless part of the group as a whole. And the one member that most stuck out—Derek Hale—was somehow at the center of it all, looking almost at home surrounded by these teenagers.

I won’t even pretend to understand that one, but it doesn’t look like any felonies are being committed, so I’ll look the other way. For now. They’re all on my living room floor tonight; literally, having stacked what seems to be every pillow, cushion, and blanket we own in a huge heap—a puppy pile, I think, unable to help the smile that creeps across my face. I stand in the doorway and just watch them for a few minutes, see how Stiles looks comfortable in his own skin for the first time in years. My chest feels tight, I blink hard and swallow, trying to dispel the tightness in my throat at seeing my son truly, completely, relaxed and happy for the first time since his mother died. I blink again, eyes focusing on the couch. Deciding that’s enough peeping for one night, I turn away, head up the stairs, get ready for bed. Stiles is fine—better than he’s been in a long while, and that is more than enough for me. And if my son was holding Derek Hale’s hand tightly in his own for the entire second half of _The Avengers_ , well, that’s something we’ll talk about tomorrow. For now, I’ll let them enjoy the movie.


End file.
